


The Orphan's Carol

by StarlightAsteria



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Christmas at the Orphanage, Originally posted on HPFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:07:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: HE was eight when it happened.Or Christmas at the Orphanage between the wars.originally posted on HPFF.





	The Orphan's Carol

**Author's Note:**

> Hi Everyone, welcome to another one-shot of mine. It's another one of my old pieces which I've decided to transfer over here from HPFF, originally written as a secret santa gift for randomhpffwriter. 
> 
> Enjoy, and do tell me what you thought!

* * *

 

 

_THE ORPHAN'S CAROL_

 

* * *

 

 

HE was eight when it happened. He’d saved up his meagre tuppence a week in pocket money, given to them all, out of the magnanimous generosity of the Dean’s heart, in order to have enough money for Matron to buy him a Christmas present and place it, wrapped in plain brown greaseproof paper, tied up with string into a neat, floppy, little bow, underneath the Christmas tree in the orphanage atrium. 

 

So, on Christmas morning, like every single other child the institution housed - at the noble taxpayer’s expense, thank you very much - he’d dashed down the stairs, dark hair neatly slicked back, tie meticulously snug around his neck, and crowded around the tree. Mindful not to accidentally push another child over - accidents tended to happen when he was around - he waited for Matron, a stern old maid, trained in the old school which meant two spoonfuls of cod-liver oil every morning and a ‘you’ll live, boy’ when faced with the flu, to pick up the parcels from under the tree and read out the name on the tag. 

 

He knew what he wanted. He’d written to Father Christmas in his best copperplate, had double-checked the stamp was properly stuck to the envelope, and had made sure he’d posted it in lots of time. 

 

His parcel was the last to be handed out. He was close enough to the great tree for some of the pine needles to fall from the branches like oblong snowflakes and float through the air, coming to rest in his dark hair, close enough for the intoxicating smell of resin to fill his nostrils. He could almost imagine a cold winter wind ruffling his hair and the sound of distant sleigh bells echoing through the winter. 

 

It was Christmas Day, and it was the only day of the year that he could tolerate, that he actually looked forward to, a change from the dull drudgery of day after monotonous day in the orphanage. 

 

And so, carefully bowing with a ‘thank you ma’am’ precisely enunciated, he tore open his present paper.

 

He could not believe his eyes. 

 

Trying desperately to keep a neutral face and not let the tears of frustration and humiliation he could feel forming fall from his eyes, he looked down at black, lumpy piece of coal.

 

‘Only good boys get presents, Master Riddle.’ The Dean told him, and the other children burst into cruel laughter. He looked up at the Dean, tried to explain that the incident with the rabbit hadn’t been his fault - that it had been an accident, by Jove, - Milly had been teasing him about his latest arithmetic test - but the stern steel in the old man’s eyes told him that protest would be useless. He fought the building rage inside his heart, knowing that when he lost control, that that was when accidents happened.

 

He fought and fought, gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, hands trembling, but he fought his rage the way a man fights an avalanche thundering down a mountain. 

 

All too soon, he lost.

 

He shook, eyes closed, but from the sudden screams and curses around him, he knew he’d done something - again - done something terrible and that he would be sent to his room for the rest of the day without lunch or supper, and certainly no Christmas pudding or carol singing.

 

When he opened his eyes the great tree was on fire.

 

As he suspected would happen, he was ordered to his room after a beating from the Dean’s silver tipped cane. He was frogmarched up the stairs by Matron, the door was locked and he was alone.

 

Then his mind altered the thought as a scruffy brown dog jumped up and licked his cold cheek. Not exactly alone. He had his pet dog, a barking, jumping thing of mischief, responsible for more of his beatings than he could count: Merlin. He’d found the stray on one of their trips to the local countryside, and after much pleading with Matron and the Dean, he’d been allowed to keep the animal.

 

But none of that ever mattered, because Merlin’s chocolate eyes never judged him, never mocked him because _he wasn’t like the other children and no-one knew why. No-one cared to find out why._ Merlin was loyal to him. The only living creature who hadn’t looked at him with that strange mix of fear and distaste. Merlin deserved better than him, he knew that, but for some unfathomable reason, Merlin would let only him scratch his ears, rub his belly, or huddle with him on the brick-hard bed. 

 

He’d been so excited, he thought bitterly. When he’d seen it in the shop in town a few weeks ago, his heart had leapt and he’d wanted it so badly. Staring at it through the shop window, he’d analysed the price-tag carefully, mentally adding up his pocket money, verifying whether he had enough. 

 

The other children’s presents had been books or dolls or a new pair of shoes.

 

All he’d wanted for Christmas was that shiny emerald leather dog collar for Merlin.

 

Outside, beyond the windows, the boy and the stray looked at the snow falling from the grey sky, the black lump of coal beside them.   

 

* * *

 


End file.
